Hot Chocolate
by The Page Of Cups
Summary: They just can't get happy right. OmiYohji.


I'm watching for him. I always am until it's clear he's spending the night. The air is still. I see frost crystallizing around the edges of the kitchen window. Hot chocolate warms my hands and fogs the glass with my breath.

Seven pulls into its usual parking spot. Something must have gone wrong; he's early this time. Maybe there'll be a pink handprint on his cheek, or maybe just the tiredness in his eyes. Yohji has puppy dog eyes that droop on the outside and almost always look a little sad. But it's worse when he comes home alone in the chill of night. I think behind those eyes, he's going over what happened, remembering the exact sting of her words. Was she hurt? Angry. Misunderstood. Was he? What did he do wrong. What did she.

Then he'll smoke a cigarette and decide it was entirely his fault. That's how he is.

Aya is already closed off in his room. Ken is probably watching another cheap horror film. Yohji is starting up the stairs for his apartment. I set aside the mug and meet him on the balcony. He looks at me, then continues on, like he doesn't even see me.

"I have some hot water on the stove. I'll make you tea?"

He smiles at me over his shoulder. He's not going to take the invitation, I can tell. I reach out and grab his hand between mine. It's cold. "Yohji-kun..."

Awkward silence. I plaster on a smile. "Mah, you're freezing! You should come in here and warm up for a while!"

"Omi. Not now." His voice shivers like it's been touched by a more bitter cold than what's outside. My lips thin as they press together. I tug him inside and close the door; I don't want him to go be alone. He stares at me, watching, maybe debating whether he'll argue about it.

He retreats to the couch and sits down, head in his hands. I pour another mug of steaming water and add a teabag. I try not to watch him too often, or too long. I don't ask what happened. I don't say anything.

When the tea is ready, I take it to him and sit beside him on the couch. He has such distant eyes, staring blankly through the TV and the wall. I wait with him in silence. After a minute, he starts to drink. I'm glad.

We drink together until my mug is empty. I try not to fidget, to give him the space he wants. It's hard. When only a few sips of tea are left, I brave a scoot in closer, and wrap my arms around him. My face finds his tummy and the Egyptian cotton of his shirt. He tolerates it.

"Yohji-kun... Are you feeling better?"

Another smile like the one outside. "Aa. I'm better." I get the feeling he's lying. I curl and relax my fingers, deliberating. Yes. No?

I look up so I can see in his eyes, and see through them. Puppy dog eyes don't lie. He doesn't really want to be alone either. I push myself up and kiss him.

Maybe he doesn't have the energy to tell me no. Maybe deep down, he doesn't want to admit it'll help. Our tongues are both hot from drink. Yohji's is hotter. Bitter tea and hot chocolate... it's not a great combination of tastes, but he's not pulling back, so neither am I.

Warmth settles against my ribs. I smile into the kiss; that's how Yohji's hands ought to be: warm. I press forward and feel our bodies sink horizontal against the sofa. He's hit it. That just-can't-stand-to-think-anymore stage. It's okay. He doesn't have to.

I slip my hands under his shirt and glide them up his chest. I feel the friction against my palms; he doesn't care. My fingertips brush over muscle. Excitement is building. It's sinking down my chest, deepening my breath, pressing against his leg.

I climb forward to kiss the length of his neck. I wonder sometimes how it would be if I didn't smell cigarettes in his hair for a change. I'd want that even more. I worry about him.

My fingers cling to his flesh. For a minute, I can't keep kissing. My forehead rests against the bone of his collar. Idiot. Smoking, drinking, trying anything to escape pain. He doesn't take care of himself. Is it so wrong to? I know how dangerous the job is, and maybe it makes worrying about good health seem pointless. But why shouldn't I wish for all of us to have the best chance we can?

"Stopping already...?"

I try not to falter with my smile. "No. Of course not. I'm sorry. It's nothing."

I push it all back down and kiss him again. Nothing kills a mood like a lecture. And if I kill the mood, then Yohji will leave. And if he leaves, then I won't be able to take care of him. He needs this, I know he does. I don't want him to leave.

I scoot back down to open his pants. My fingers fumble with the zipper. It must catch on this pair.

It's as hot down there as it is in his mouth. I don't want to look in his eyes. I'm afraid of what I'll see. I can feel him watching me, and he's not saying a word. He's waiting.

I shift to the floor and angle him towards my mouth. I don't taste tea or cigarettes here. I smell the cologne he put on for his date. And he's wearing his good boxers, the soft material I like so much.

He ghosts out a moan, impatient. And I'm sitting here and bobbing my head, fully aware that we're physically connected but not with each other at all. Yohji's mind is still on the disastrous evening, and his heart is even further. And me... I like the sex, but I know this isn't what I really want. It's just the closest I can grasp to it. I'm hungry for it... for something.

Fingers tangle in my hair. I like it when he does things like that. It isn't a diminutive tousle. It's real contact. Holding me, touching me. It makes me try harder to satisfy that intangible need. It always feels like something hovering just above this. Not quite there, a little more effort. Surely then, I'll find it.

I choke because he surprises me when he comes. I cup my mouth, cough into my hand, and I'm still catching my breath when he pulls me in. My face in his side, my head under his arm, his hand on my back. He won't let me see his face. I always wonder how it looks when he does this, but I never try to find out anymore. His hand slides into my pants, wrist pinned by the waistband. My arms close around him. I can't help clinging.

I don't think about much when he's getting me off. That makes it a little more amazing. My brain shuts down, and I can hear the rest of me that I usually tune out. I hear my body's tremors of approval. My arms' gratitude for someone to hold. My heart's nostalgia about how real love felt, back before I lost it forever.

The frustrating part is that even though it feels good, half the time, it just makes me want to cry anyway.

Orgasm is mediocre. His hold relaxes and I withdraw to the sofa. His hand rests on my shoulder and rubs my back, then stops. He's leaving. I don't try to stop him again. After a few minutes, I go clean up.

Ken complained at me the other day that he thought it was weird how Yohji was always encouraging me to get a girlfriend. I keep trying not to think about it, but I can't block out the truth. I shouldn't lie to myself, that I'm the one taking care of him, but I really can't help it. Deep in my heart, I'm still learning that just because one of my friends doesn't want to be alone, it doesn't mean he wants to be with me.

In my room, I move to the bed and watch the snow falling outside. I feel the chill emanating from the window glass; it doesn't bother me. I slide under the covers and curl up. Yohji is good like hot chocolate. For a little while, he makes me feel warm inside. It sort of tingles, and in a few minutes it'll be gone again. But it's enough to help me fall asleep.

I only hope I'm more than bitter tea to him.


End file.
